


Secrets of the Past

by booksnerdharrypotter



Series: throne of angst [1]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, angsty yes, celaena is rattled, dorian isn’t a dumbass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnerdharrypotter/pseuds/booksnerdharrypotter
Summary: Dorian Havilliard was irritated at himself for not recognising who Celaena Sardothien truly was.





	Secrets of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place at the yulemas ball when celaena and dorian are dancing together x

Dorian Havilliard was completely and quite irrevocably irked.

 He could not, for the life of him, figure out why Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s greatest assassin, was so decidedly familiar. The thought had crossed his mind before, yet never without much depth, passing it off as fleeting coincidence. But now, as Dorian danced with Celaena, he couldn’t shake the feeling. She swirled around him in a silken grey dress better suited for a princess, not an assassin. Its whorls glittered and sparkled like the star she was. Celaena was beautiful.

That wasn’t the issue, though. Dorian had always acknowledged her stunning looks and graces. But this feeling- this strong sense of _familiarity_ \- wholly unsettled him. Baffled him. And he was treading the fine line to disrupting his perfect composure because it was making him lose his absolute shit.

 They continued twirling in time to the music, the song slowing to a lesser paced waltz. Celaena teased him about anything and everything. She was terribly quick-witted and equally passionate. There was a fire within her- _fire_.

 Dorian’s eyes widened. There had been a time in his life when there had been a princess of flames and blazing glory. The two young royals had been the heirs to great kingdoms, both of them similar in age. He had been piqued at her once upon a dream, when she had told him that he ate- of all things- like a fine lady! And that was before she threatened to unleash her entirely brutish cousin on him.

 Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. The Princess of Terrasen had lost her life in his father’s journey for power and influence. Drowned in a churning, icy river. Dorian could still picture her ivory skin, pressed blonde curls and turquoise eyes circled in gold.

 Mother Goddess above, he couldn’t _believe_ it. How could he have missed it?

 Only the Ashryvers had eyes that colour, the shining blue engulfed in ever-loving flames. Which meant-

 Which meant that Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s most notorious assassin, was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Crown Princess to Terrasen.

 Dorian Havilliard, Crown Prince of Composure and Equanimity, gasped. Here he was, dancing with his supposed enemy at a masked ball. An enemy that had apparently risen from the dead. He could feel Celaena- _Aelin_ \- staring at him, worry pitted in her gaze. Maybe it wasn’t her- it might purely be him jumping to completely absurd conclusions. Assumptions, he admitted, that did have some semblance of evidence backing the claims.

 Celaena pressed her hand to his cheek. “Dorian?” she asked, her voice like the sweetest honey. “Do you need a moment?”

  _You’re my enemy_ , the prince wanted to scream. _You’re supposed to be dead. But my heart is a raging torrent of emotions and I can’t think._

 “It is stifling in here,” was all he said. She nodded, her starlit eyes still full of that persistent concern. Dorian could not believe that he had not realised just how similar her and Aedion looked. Their hair, their eyes, their scars. If not for the age difference, the two could be twins in body and soul. 

The prince was, well, he was panicking. He still had no idea what he should do. Tonight, or tomorrow, perhaps, he’d confront her. But for the moment he would not tell his father. Whatever it was worth, she was still his somewhat friend and maybe something more. His head hurt, his heart hurt.

Despite his raging thoughts and her unaware, the assassin and the prince continued to dance.

 

\---

 

He needed a drink. And desperately.

 The line for any beverage- particularly of the alcoholic kind- was slowly dwindling as more and more guests chose to drunkenly twirl across the dancing floor or find someone else’s bed. Dorian poured himself a glass of _something_. It was strong and burned his throat, but it was enough to clear his head- at least for now. His mother and Chaol had both left, so the prince did not feel quite as bad when he walked through the doors and into the night.

 The air was cool and crisp, gooseflesh lining the skin underneath his pewter tunic, but he paid it no heed. Instead, Dorian hurried through servant passages and hidden walkways towards Celaena’s rooms. The guards greeted him with respect and fervor as he arrived, bowing deeply. And then there she was, daring assassin and would-be queen in the flesh. Her cheeks heated as she caught sight of him, a small smile gracing her lips.

They walked into her rooms, closing the door with a nod to the guards.

 “You left without saying goodbye,” Dorian whispered. As if that was the height of his worries! Gods, he was a mess. And that was even _before_ he kissed her. Celaena’s body was soft and supple, warm to the touch. He looked deep into her stunning eyes, the golden core one of the many causes of his current turmoil, still kissing her slowly, sensually.

 ]But it couldn’t be. She pulled away from his embrace and his heart was torn in two. If she really was Aelin, then he had just kissed the enemy of his kingdom. He had to hope his father never, ever discovered what happened behind these closed doors.

 ]“I should go to bed,” Celaena said, her voice low through plumped and bruised lips. Dorian raised a shaped eyebrow. “Alone.”

 ]He nodded, almost relieved. Almost. No matter who she truly was, his heart still ached for her in every sense of the word.

 With a soft sigh, she walked towards the balcony, her hands rising to run fingers across her lips. Dorian’s face heated before deciding _what the heck_ and following her pale form into the ever-cooling air. The breeze couldn’t hide the fact that her scent still lingered on him, the expensive and refined smell of perfume and soap. Celaena looked at him, those turquoise eyes- the bane of his existence- flashing.

 “Sometimes,” he said, voice low so as to not disrupt the night’s silence, “I wonder what it would have been like if life was different. If I had been fated to be ordinary and not the Crown Prince of a burning empire.”

Would she take the bait? Maybe if he could get her talking, loosen her tongue, she could confirm or deny his harried assumptions.

 Celaena breathed.

 “My whole life I wanted to be _free_. To not have to look behind my back and worry,” she muttered quickly. Her tone suggested that she was going to say nothing more on the matter. Dorian was rattled. Maybe he had been stupid and an idiot, thinking that the Queen of the Underworld was actually the true monarch of a formidable land. But maybe he hadn’t been. He still could not shake the feeling that he was right.

The prince forged on ahead, beginning to toe the line of treason, “You’re well versed in history and politics.”

“Is that a compliment, Your Most Esteemed Highness?” She (almost) snorted. Dorian chuckled.

“Do you ever wonder if Aelin Galathynius could still be alive?”

There. He said it. The words were out in the open, the beginning of a conversation that could, well, rattle the stars. Dorian looked at Celaena, the way her skin paled and the gold in her eyes turned molten. Her voice was quiet when she spoke once more.

“The princess died in the bottom of a churning river ten years ago,” she said. Her voice was so low she sounded like she was hissing the words through her teeth.

“It is said they never found her body.”

Celaena looked towards the constellation of the Lord of the North, her face waning. “Wishful thinking for a bunch of pragmatists.”

Dorian was unnerving her, he could tell. She refused to look at him any longer and he wondered whether he had pushed too far. But he had to know, had to understand whether the woman that he loved was the heir to his opposition. If she was truly hiding flames beneath the death that prowled her skin. He was going to do it, forge ahead and say the words that plagued and toiled his thoughts.

“I think she’s alive,” he said, still edging treason for the sake of righteousness. “And I think she’s standing right next to me.”

“You cannot believe-” she began. If it was possible, her ivory skin had turned an even paler shade of white, crimson staining her cheeks. _“Aelin Ashryver Galathynius is dead_.”

It was the ire in her words, the hissing of self-hatred that convinced Dorian he was correct. And the broiling trouble was only going to continue. 

“After all these years, it seems your words have sung truth: Chaol is no longer my only friend.”


End file.
